Flash Fiction Friday: The Hand
I listened to crazed jazz as we barreled underground in a fluorescent brume. In the reflections in the window, our faces looked sallow, and depressing shadows cupped our eyes. At the next stop, more people boarded and we were suddenly moderately crowded so I stood up, letting the seat spring back up behind me. I was never sure when to stand or when to sit so I figured I should stand when in doubt, if not for function then at least to show my support for those of us who were upright. As soon as I stood my eyes became level with her hand on the pole. Her face was turned away, but she leaned a hand against the bar in front of me in the most unusual way. Only her thumb and middle finger touched the metal; her thumb pointed down toward the earth, and her finger aimed stiffly upward. That middle finger was so erect against the bar, like the horn of a unicorn or the steel I-beams of a skyscraper. Her other digits hung in the air, curled naturally the way an old piano teacher had taught me to play. I stared at the hand, but when we pulled into the next stop we all fell forward slightly and the hand grabbed the pole and held it fast, just a regular fist like everyone else’s.
Don't forget to read the other 3 pieces and leave a comment. To my knowledge, in the MONTH+ since Crow and I established FFF, nobody has ever guessed what the rule is. If they have, they never commented. You guys. Go for the gold. You should find at least one commonality between the four fictions this week.